


Tenebrous

by perihadion



Series: Chiaroscuro [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Implied Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller, Male Friendship, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 14:29:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14979137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perihadion/pseuds/perihadion
Summary: Illya meets with Solo to discuss plans.





	Tenebrous

If you want a clear mirror,  
behold yourself  
and see the shameless truth

 _Rumi_ , The Divani Shamsi Tabriz, XIII

*

Regarding Solo, Illya had needed to be careful in his approach. He knew that the American would prefer not to kill him — but that he wouldn’t hesitate to do it either. Things being what they were, politically. He had had to make contact without exposing himself at first. But at a certain point it was necessary to make a leap of faith. Either Solo would kill him, or he wouldn’t; if he didn’t, the KGB might; if neither of them did then he might have a chance. There was no assurance.

They met in a neutral location. An apartment associated with neither of their agencies. Nodding acknowledgement to each other, they independently and silently turned it over, sweeping for bugs.

Solo poured them both a drink, and then leaned back in an armchair. Illya stood by the window. He was on edge. There was no real possibility that they could have followed him here but he found himself unable to rest lately. His heart was always in his throat. If he were caught liaising with Solo it would mean death for both of them — but not instant death, a slow death, after having their secrets drawn from them. It wasn’t just his own life at stake.

“Are you sure about this?” Solo said, breaking the silence.

“Yes,” said Illya.

“Illya,” Solo said, using his real name for once. “It’s not going to be easy, and I don’t mean getting out. I mean after. You will never be trusted.”

“I know this,” Illya responded.

Solo set his glass down on a side table and joined Illya at the window.

“Look, I’m no fan of the KGB, or Russia.” He tilted his head. “Not that I’m a huge fan of the CIA and America either, mind you. But think about this, Peril. You have a solid career, a strong reputation. You are important in the KGB. You have power, prestige. If you leave you’re giving that up and you will never get it back. And, more importantly, you will never be able to go back. You understand? You will be an exile.”

“Da,” Illya said, suddenly frustrated, “you think I don’t know this? You think I haven’t struggled with this?” He wanted to put his fist through the window; or, alternatively, Solo’s face. After the years they worked together, he thought Solo would understand him better. More than anyone, Solo should be able to understand that he excelled at his work not because he believed in the KGB, or in his country’s government. This was the government which had exiled his father and psychologically broken him down. He excelled in his work precisely because it was the only way to matter in the Soviet Union, to live a life that has some importance. Russia, he loved, and he would miss her. But the Party? The USSR? The KGB?

Solo put a hand on his arm. “I know,” he said. “I just needed to be sure.”

“Thing you don’t understand,” Illya said, brushing his hand away, “is that there is no choice for me.”

“Because of Gaby,” Solo said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, in part,” Illya responded. “In part, because of Gaby. In part, because —”

He didn’t know how to finish that sentence. Because for a few short, glorious years he had found a way to matter outside of the KGB’s brutality. Not just to matter to the world, but to matter to the people around him. To have friends. To have a kind of family. He frowned.

“Even if I had choice, at one point, it is made,” he said. Solo looked askance at him. He shrugged. “She knows. Now I have no choice.”

Solo fell back into the chair and rubbed his brow. “You told her?” He stared at Illya. “Was that necessary?” Then, “How did you even make contact?”

“With some difficulty,” Illya said. “And, no. It was not necessary. It was dangerous, reckless. I endanger you, me, her, but —” he closed his eyes. “I needed her to know.”

“So you can’t back out, or so it isn’t a shock to her when you’re killed?”

Illya shook his head. “I just needed it. I don’t expect you to understand.”

Solo breathed out a long sigh. He didn’t understand. The chance that Illya would be able to defect in and of itself — it wasn’t great, but it wasn’t impossible. These things happened. Solo was to arrange the meeting; if Illya could keep the KGB off his trail until then, and the CIA didn’t immediately lock him up without interview or “disappear” him themselves, it could work. He had no doubt Illya had a great deal of information to barter with, if he wanted to maximise his chances. But the life he would lead afterwards: he would never be able to visit his home country, he would be ostracised in the West, he would live under the threat of a KGB assassination attempt. What was worth this?

There was, of course, the possibility that this was all a KGB ploy. They knew of Illya’s time at U.N.C.L.E., and of his previous working relationships there. It was entirely possible, even likely, that he had been assigned to exploit those relationships to become a double operative with the CIA and report their intelligence to Moscow. Frankly, Solo didn’t care about that but he also didn’t think it was the case. There was really no way that Illya could betray Gaby like that. Besides, maintaining his cover was very much not among the set of skills that made him such an effective agent.

So, he didn’t understand it, but he would help. For his friend, enemy, and one-time colleague he would try to make this work — though he felt Illya probably overestimated his leverage at the agency. He owed them a debt and they would never allow him to forget it. They didn’t trust him, they surely wouldn’t trust whatever KGB defectors he brought in. The whole thing might actually go more smoothly if Illya approached them directly — just marched on into Langley and declared, “I am KGB and I wish to defect. You have file on me ten inch thick.”

He frowned at Illya’s back. None of this made any kind of sense and, even worse, it wasn’t fun.

Illya stared out of the window. If he died, he thought, at least he had seen Gaby. It had been a mistake; she was not supposed to be there. But he had been able to see her, bury his face in her hair, and kiss her whole body one last time and he was glad for that. He was even glad to see Cowboy again. In the reflection in the window, he could see Solo watching him. He doesn’t understand, Illya thought, but how could he? To grow up in a country with all the capitalist excesses of America and for that not to be enough, to still need to steal, how could Solo understand how he felt? Illya was exhausted.

He thought of Gaby. What was she doing now? Had she already decrypted his message? Was she upset? Maybe she would want nothing more to do with him. He had been selfish. When he heard her approach, he should have left her apartment; she wouldn’t have had to see him, he wouldn’t have had to leave her again. But he just couldn’t. Knowing that she was just on the other side of the door, that she was about to walk in, that she was so close — he had needed to see her. He had needed to know if she would still see anything in him that she wanted.

He knew, he had heard, that she had had other boyfriends since him. But, for Illya, there had been no one else. There could be no one else. He had had some experience before Gaby — mostly as a teenager, before he had focused inward on himself and his career — but he had never particularly related to a woman in that way before. He had never understood or been understood by a woman. Of course for her it was easy, because she was beautiful, intelligent, and fun. She could have any number of boyfriends. But they never lasted long. Or, at least, that was what he had heard. He had dared to think that maybe she still preferred him.

Even if she didn’t, his mind was made up. This wasn’t only about her. He just couldn’t live the way he had been living any more, now that he knew there were other ways to live. Still, he wondered. Would she have him? His head ached.

“They’ll want to make you a double-agent, you know,” Solo said. “The CIA, I mean.” Illya turned to look at him. “You could go through all this effort just to stay embedded with the KGB. With added danger.”

Illya nodded, “Yes, I have considered this.”

Solo cocked his head and raised an eyebrow, “And?”

Illya shrugged. “Is acceptable risk.”

Solo stared at him. Acceptable risk? He wanted to shake him. Suddenly Illya laughed. He had lost it. He had finally cracked entirely.

“CIA embeds me as double-agent, yes? But,” he opened and closed his fists, “I am valuable asset. Many skills. They do not want me killed. So, I stay with KGB, I am ‘accidentally’ compromised, CIA extracts.”

Solo was speechless. I mean, he thought, that is one way to do it. But. “Are you insane?” he said. “Sorry,” he raised his hands in supplication, “I forgot that you are. Do you know what the odds of being killed are in this scenario? Your cover is compromised, the KGB kill you on the spot — or you kill yourself, to avoid torture.”

“No,” Illya said. “Cover blown, ordinary agent is killed. Kuryakin escapes.”

Oh, god. There was no talking him out of it.

“Well, then,” Solo said, resigned. “I suppose we should formulate a plan.”

Illya finally moved from the window, and picked up his drink.

*

They worked through the night running scenarios and, if he allowed himself to forget what they were working on, Illya could pretend that it was just like old times. He would never say this to Solo, but the American was the best friend — maybe the only friend — he had ever had. There was every chance that this could be the last time they worked together on anything, maybe one of the last times they ever saw each other if things went wrong; it was a fitting good-bye, if so.

When all the plans were made, Illya nodded at Solo and stood to leave. Solo faced him, and shook his hand; Illya took Solo’s wrist and turned it over, placing his father’s watch into his open palm.

“For safe-keeping,” he said. “If all is okay, you give back. If something happens,” he shrugged, “you keep.”

Solo looked down at the watch in his hand and sighed. “It doesn’t go with anything I own.”

Illya clapped his shoulders. “You need new wardrobe. Sensible, proper spy clothing.”

Solo put the watch on his left wrist and said, “I’ll take that under advisement.”

Illya smiled, then touched his fingers to his head in a kind of salute. “See ya round, Cowboy.”

He turned to leave. Solo sighed.

“I have to say this,” he said. “I never did understand it, you know,” Solo said. “You and Gaby, I mean.”

Illya paused, and looked back over his shoulder at Solo, who was looking at him solidly, with his hands in his pockets. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said, “it was obvious from the start. It’s just that you two — you don’t exactly match.”

Illya felt the corner of his mouth curl in a wry smile as he shrugged his shoulders.

“We don’t have to match.”

**Author's Note:**

> Me, two days ago: "I'm writing a oneshot and that's it. I'm no good at longform storytelling." Me, today: "This is now a series."


End file.
